


Is it Prey, On Display (I'm Feeling Weak)

by countessrivers



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Allusions to Ra's' A+ Parenting and creepy matchmaking skills, Bad Touch, Blow Jobs, Brainwashing, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Groping, M/M, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-05-14 13:49:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19274599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/pseuds/countessrivers
Summary: Just a bunch of one-shots involving the bad guys doing terrible, awful things to Bruce.Tags and/or warnings will be updated with each new chapter.Chapter 1: Bruce/Jerome - "Missing" scene from 3x14.Chapter 2: Bruce/Ra's al Ghul - Ra's testing/taking advantage of his control over Bruce.





	1. Bruce/Jerome

**Author's Note:**

> I've hit kind of a writing roadblock with some of my longer, more plot driven fics, so I'm trying to break it with some shorter (I mean it still ended up over 4000 words) gross porn fics.
> 
> Partly dedicated to and partly the fault of brotherfuckersanonymous, who's cool with me regularly dropping into their Ask/IMs with a "So how about this awful idea?"

“Hold up, Brucie.” 

Jerome yanks on the back of his turtleneck, pulling him to a stop. Jerome had let go of his ear once they were out of the study, but he’d prodded Bruce in the back all the way through the manor until they’d gotten outside. They’re standing in the driveway now, and there’s a black van parked haphazardly in front of them. 

One of Jerome’s followers approaches him. He’s holding a length of rope, and his eyes are darting back to look at where Jerome is standing behind him. 

“Alright, hands up,” Jerome says. 

Bruce balks at the idea of just offering up his hands to be tied. It feels too much like surrendering, even though that’s essentially what he’s done already. He doesn’t want to lose what little advantage he might have, but Jerome killing him in his driveway isn’t much better than Jerome killing him in his study. Bruce needs more time and more distance if he’s going to manage a proper escape, so when he hears Jerome clear his throat and feels something sharp poke him in the back, he brings his hands up and allows the man to tie them together. 

He keeps his face decidedly blank when the cultist ties the rope just this side of too tight. The rope itself is coarse, and it’s already rubbing against the skin of his wrists, but he manages to keep the discomfort from showing. 

It’s harder to keep a blank face when Jerome leans in and brushes his mouth against the shell of his ear, still twisting the knife so that its point is pressing into his back. 

“Good boy.” 

It takes everything Bruce has not to shudder. And not to slam his head backwards and break Jerome’s nose. 

Bruce feels Jerome step back, and at some unseen signal, two of the cultists step up and take hold of Bruce’s arms. Before Bruce can even think about shaking them off, a bag comes down over his head. There’s a moment of panic, with his sight cut off, his hearing muffled and the oppressive weight of the cloth over his face, and Bruce can’t help but lash out. He kicks at the man to his right and pulls his arm free when the man grunts in pain. He tries to pull his other arm lose, but his wrists are still tied, and another pair of hands quickly clamp down on his shoulders. 

“Would you- Hey! Stop trying to kick me.” A hand, Jerome’s hand, moves up under the bag and wraps around his throat. Bruce stills, but not before elbowing the cultist still holding onto his arm one last time. He hears Jerome snort as the man swears. 

“Better,” he says. 

“Take it off, Jerome.” Bruce hates having the bag over his head. It’s disorientating. He can’t see, his hearing is impaired, and trying to breath with the fabric covering his face is making him feel claustrophobic.  

“Hmmm, no.” 

“ _Take it off_.” Bruce tries to keep his voice steady, even as he feels Jerome’s fingers brush against his chin, his jaw, even stretching up to touch his cheek. “You don’t need it. I’m coming with you, my hands are tied, you don’t- you don’t need it.” 

“Gosh Bruce, if I’d known you’d hate it so much...” His hand slides away from Bruce’s face. “I mean, I don’t love it either. It means I don’t get to look at your pretty face.” The hand pats him on the chest. “But we need to keep some things in suspense a little longer. So, keep the bag on. I want it to be a surprise.” 

Surprise? What kind of surprise could Jerome mean? Wherever it is they’re going, presumably, but Bruce isn’t really in a position to alert anyone who might be able to intercept them. His phone is sitting on his desk in his room, but even if he had it, he’d hardly be able to contact Jim or anyone else without Jerome noticing. Bruce has to assume Jerome is doing it purely to throw him off balance. 

And Bruce is a little ashamed to admit that it’s working. 

Jerome’s not going to kill Bruce here, and he’s not going to throw a bag over his head just to immediately gut him. There’s no flair, no showmanship in that, and Bruce knows that. But that doesn’t stop the fear from making him tense, from making him want to lash out. 

He also can’t help but dwell on the fact that he has yet to hear a gunshot. Not that that means anything. Those men had had knives and pipes and bats, and the study was full of things that could be turned into a makeshift weapon. But Bruce isn’t sure what would be worse. Having to  _hear_  it or being dragged away and not being sure. 

Bruce does hear the crunch of gravel as Jerome walks away from him, and he must say something to one of his followers because Bruce manages to catch a “Sure thing, boss.” 

He hears the van door slide open, and then he’s half-marched, half-carried forward. Bruce, once again, can’t help but struggle, at least a little, because while surrendering and agreeing to go with Jerome is one thing, it’s another to really know that he’s about to be stuck in a confined space, being driven god-knows where, with someone who broke into his house in order to kill him. Who has been fantasizing about slitting his throat and was more than happy to tell him as much. 

Jerome could do anything to him, and as he’s dragged, essentially blind, towards the van, it’s starting to dawn on Bruce how little he’d be able to do to stop him. 

He’s lifted up into the van, and the cultists give Bruce a little shove once he’s in, but before he can fall, Jerome grabs him and pulls him down, though not onto a seat, but onto his own lap instead. Bruce tries to jerk away, but an arm comes around his waist like a steel bar, holding him in place. 

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to double up,” Jerome says. He’s close enough that Bruce can hear him clear enough, even through the bag. “We were full up on the way over, and, well, we weren’t exactly expecting to be picking anyone else up. You don’t mind, do you?” 

Bruce very much does mind. He’s  _sitting in Jerome’s lap_. In truth it’s somewhat humiliating. It's also uncomfortable, and with the bag over his head, he can’t anticipate how the van will move, so he’ll be reliant on Jerome and his grip to keep him from falling. He honestly wouldn’t put it past Jerome to let him fall onto the floor for a laugh. 

“It’s fine,” Bruce grits out instead, not wanting to give Jerome the satisfaction of know how uncomfortable he is. He more than likely already knows, but Bruce’s pride won’t let him acknowledge it out loud. 

“Excellent.” Jerome moves him around until his chest is pressed up against Bruce’s back, his arm still firm around his waist. The van starts and Bruce is rocked back as they drive off. With his hands tied he’s unable to steady himself, and he can’t help but fall back into Jerome. He jerks upright as soon as he can and ignores the way Jerome laughs in his ear in response. He feels Jerome hook his ankles around his, and it actually helps keep him steady, but he keeps his back straight, unwilling to lean against Jerome if he can help it. 

“You’ll have to forgive me, Bruce.” The hand around his waist starts squeezing his side. “Given that the plan  _was_  to repaint the walls of your fancy house with your blood and leave Gordon a pretty corpse to find, I don’t really have anything organised.” 

Jerome’s fingers slide up under his shirt, and Bruce tells himself the soft gasp he lets slip is because Jerome’s fingers are cold. Because he pinches the sensitive skin of his side and sharp little bite hurts. 

“Buuuuuut,” he draws out. “I’m sure I can come up with something suitably grandiose. Something  _worthy_  of the Prince of Gotham.” 

The van bounces, as if they’d hit a pothole, and Bruce feels Jerome spread and plant his feet to stop them from slipping off the seat. Jerome keeps tight hold of him, which Bruce is begrudgingly grateful for, but he can’t help but be conscious of the fact that with their ankles locked, Jerome’s movement has consequently spread Bruce’s legs too.   

He says nothing, not really wanting to draw attention to it, and Jerome goes quiet, mostly, so Bruce takes the opportunity to take in his surroundings, at least, as well as he can with his hampered senses. He has no chance of working out where they’re headed, no chance of seeing or hearing anything from outside the van just yet, but he  _can_ hear the engine, the other cultists shifting and moving about, bits and pieces rolling across the floor when they go around a corner, and Jerome humming, practically in Bruce’s ear as he drums his free hand against the edge of the seat. 

Bruce keeps himself tense, trying to maintain as much distance between himself and Jerome as he can, given that they’re plastered together, but he’s not entirely able to ignore the way Jerome’s fingers are still stroking along his side. Or the way Jerome seems to pull Bruce’s hips back while he shifts his up each time the van turns.  

They pass what Bruce judges to be around three minutes of relative silence before Jerome clears his throat. 

“You know, you tend to miss an awful lot when you’re dead. So much gone, so much missing, in what was for me a blink of an eye. I mean, I can remember back when you were the tiniest thing. I could pick you up and drag you around like a doll.” Bruce feels Jerome lean in, and it might be his imagination, but he would swear he could feel Jerome’s breath on the side of his face, even through the bag. “But look at you now.” 

Jerome spreads his,  _their_ , legs again, and this time it’s without a doubt deliberate. Bruce tries to unhook their legs and bring his in, because this is not- this is taking a turn that Bruce doesn’t want to admit he saw coming, and he doesn’t- he doesn’t know how far Jerome might go. If he just wants to make Bruce uncomfortable, or if he might actually... 

Bruce tries, and Jerome just digs his nails into his side and jerks his legs out even further. Bruce keeps moving, tries pulling at the arm still wrapped around him, but he freezes when he feels Jerome’s other hand settle on his leg. 

“Definitely on your way to being all grown up.”  

The hand is big, warm, for all it had felt cold pressed against his side. Jerome’s long fingers reach down over the inside of his thigh, fingers drumming then squeezing lightly. Bruce stiffens, breath catching in his throat. He holds himself still, hoping that the hand won’t move, but also very much wanting it to  _move_. 

“Are you still as fragile though, Bruce?” The hand disappears, and then Bruce hears a metallic flick, and he knows without seeing that Jerome has pulled his knife back out.  

“Would your skin split as easily for my knife as it did then?” 

Even through his clothes, Bruce feels the tip of the knife drag from his hip down to his thigh, stopping where Jerome’s hand had just been. He starts twisting it against his leg, almost like a screwdriver, and although he’s not actually pressing it down, Bruce can imagine him tearing a hole in his pants, then continuing on to his leg, pushing the blade into his skin, into the muscle, all the way down, while Bruce squirmed and twitched and bit his tongue so he wouldn’t cry out. 

Jerome starts tracing seemingly random patterns on his leg, knife pressing just hard enough to pull at the fabric of his slacks. He’s humming again, and Bruce holds himself still, hoping that Jerome will eventually get bored with Bruce’s non-response. 

Bruce jumps when the van lurches suddenly over what he really hopes is just a speed bump, then hisses, leg jerking as he feels the knife slice into him proper. 

“Oops, sorry. Hand slipped.”  

It feels like just a small cut on the top of his thigh, nowhere close and nowhere deep enough to be a danger, but Jerome obviously isn’t actual sorry, and seems quite fond of the idea of drawing blood, if the way he rubs his thumb against the cut is any indication. There’s a lot he could do to Bruce that wouldn’t immediately kill him. 

Though when the arm around his waist lets go and a hand settles just above his left knee, Bruce thinks, for a moment, that he’d prefer it if Jerome stuck to the knife. 

Without Jerome’s arm around his waist, Bruce has to lean back against him if he doesn’t want to fall.  

“That’s it,” Jerome says softly, when Bruce gives in and settles back. 

“Don’t”, Bruce says, finally. He hadn’t wanted to say anything, hadn’t wanted to let Jerome know he was getting to him, but he can’t. He can’t just let Jerome- 

“Don’t what? Don’t touch you, Bruce? But I want to touch you.” As if to punctuate his point, Jerome starts stroking his leg, hand and long fingers brushing halfway up his thigh, then back down to his knee. “I want to touch you in all sorts of fun places, in all sorts of fun ways. Isn’t that what we agreed tonight was all about? Fun?”  

The knife starts trails up and down the outside of his right thigh while Jerome keeps running his hand slowly up the inside of his left 

“Also, I’m in charge, so you don’t really get a say here.” 

The worst thing, the absolutely worst thing is that Jerome isn’t hurting him. Bruce doesn’t want this, he  _wants_  Jerome to stop touching him, but the hand itself, the way it’s reaching further up his leg with each stroke, feels  _good_. It feels nice. 

And Bruce may hate how much he doesn’t fully hate the feeling itself, but maybe how much he hates it is part of why it feels so nice. 

Like how, just maybe, the knife kind of, sort of, makes it better. Or the fact that Jerome’s not listening to him. 

But Bruce doesn’t like it. He can’t, he doesn’t. That’s not who he is. He doesn’t like being kidnapped and touched and fondled by a murderer who also, ultimately, wants him dead. That’s not  _normal_. 

“Oh, hey, I meant to ask.” Bruce startles as Jerome pulls the knife away, though the other hand remains where it is. “Galavan carked it twice yeah? What happened with that?” 

Bruce isn’t entirely surprised the Jerome wants to know about Galavan, given that he had been, for all intents and purposes, working for the man, and the man had turned around and murdered him, but he’s a little thrown by Jerome asking him, now. There are worse topics of conversation Jerome could push him into though. 

“It was only a few months after you...” Bruce trails off. 

“Died?” Jerome says, bringing the knife to rest against Bruce’s stomach. He slips it under his clothes so that the cold metal is resting against his skin, and Bruce can’t help but finch at the contact. “You can say it. No need to protect my feelings. I was there, you know.” 

“Well, after that, he was elected mayor, made a few attempts at obtaining control of Wayne Enterprises, somewhat legally, and then when that didn’t work, he kidnapped me.” 

“You are fairly kidnap-able Bruce, you must admit. There’s just something about you that screams ‘spirit me away and do awful things to me’. It’s not your fault. It’s just the way things are.” 

Bruce ignores him, the same way he tries to ignore the hand that’s still stroking his thigh, and the flat edge of the knife that’s tapping against his stomach. 

“He tried to kill me. Almost did.” Bruce decides to skip over the cult and family vendetta aspects of the whole thing. “Detective Gordon, Oswald Cobblepot and- and a few others turned up. They stopped him, Galavan disappeared, or escaped, and was found dead at the docks not long after.” 

Jerome hums, as if to say, “go on.” 

“They eventually arrested Cobblepot for it. Not sure exactly what happened though.” 

Bruce actually does know how Theo Galavan died the first time. At least, he knows enough, but he’s not going to give that information over Jerome. He’s not going to do that to Jim. 

“Hmm.” Jerome’s hand is now rubbing the top of his thigh, and there’s no way he hasn’t noticed Bruce’s reaction to the touch. Or maybe, his reaction despite it. Because Bruce is definitely at least half-hard, and he feels sick to the stomach because of it. 

Or maybe he hasn’t noticed. Maybe he’s too busy thinking about Galavan. 

“And the second time?” 

“There was this place, a facility, Indian Hill. The doctor there, Hugo Strange, worked out how to bring people back to life. He did it with Galavan.” 

Jerome mutters something that sound like “show stealer”. 

“They set him loose, or he escaped, I’m not sure, but he came to the manor, broke in-” 

Bruce openly gasps, cutting himself off, because Jerome starts blatantly stroking his cock, and it takes everything Bruce has not to arch up into his hand. 

“Keep going,” Jerome says sternly. 

“He-” Bruce digs his nails into his palms. “He broke in and tried to kill me again.” 

“And who stopped him that time?” 

“Alfred, Detective Gordon were there. Then, then Cobblepot, and Butch Gilzean arrived.” 

Trying to squirm away from Jerome’s hand means he’s just pushing himself back against Jerome’s lap, where it’s difficult not to notice that Jerome is hard too. Bruce can feel his cock pressing against his ass, and like his hand, Bruce may not be able to see it, but he can feel it, and it feels big. 

It would hurt, Bruce thinks distantly, if Jerome- 

Bruce lets out whine when Jerome squeezes at his cock, and Jerome answers with a noise of his own, stirred maybe by Bruce’s, or maybe by the way Bruce keeps involuntarily rocking back against him. 

“They-” Bruce tries to keep going. Maybe Jerome will stop if Bruce finishes telling him what happened to Galavan. “They blew him up. With a rocket launcher.” 

Jerome’s hand stills for a moment, and Bruce is grateful that it’s at least stopped moving, before he bursts into laughter. Bruce feels him hunch over against his back, cackling loud and awful before the sound splutters off into a round of coughing. Bruce tries to arch away as much as he can, but Jerome’s blade is still pressed against his stomach, so there’s really nowhere for him to go. 

“Oh, oh that’s brilliant,” Jerome says, once he gets his voice back. “I knew there was a reason I liked that guy.” He laughs again. “A rocket launcher. I love it.” 

“I’m glad you find it funny at least,” Bruce can’t help snap, even as he squeezes his eyes shut when Jerome resumes stroking his cock. 

“Honestly, good comedy is wasted on the lot of you.” 

Jerome starts dragging his knife further up Bruce’s stomach, lifting up his shirt and turtleneck as he goes. He draws a few idle patters with the tip on the way, before turning the knife so that the flat edge is once again pressed against his skin. He keeps running it up and down his stomach as he increases the pressure on Bruce’s cock. 

The blade is no longer chill against his skin, instead warmed by the contact with his body, but Bruce can still feel it, he still knows it’s there, and although Jerome is keeping the flat edge pressed against him, it’s all too easy to imagine a sharp turn or a rough bit of road making his hand slip again, slicing Bruce open. The feel of the metal pressed against him makes Bruce shudder, knowing, as he does, that Jerome could, and  _would_  open him up, if that’s what he wanted to do.  

Try as he might Bruce can’t help the abortive little thrusts his hips keep making. Jerome keeps squeezing, stroking his cock, occasionally stopping to drag his nails up the inside of his thigh before moving his hand back between his legs. 

It feels good. Far too good, which Bruce thinks may be the point. Where before Jerome’s touches had been almost casual, he seems now to be actively touching him with purpose. When he lets slip a moan, a gasp, any sort of noise he can’t keep behind his teeth, Jerome does whatever he was doing more. Harder. Draws it out in a way that has Bruce wanting to chase the feeling despite himself. 

It hits Bruce that Jerome is trying to make him come. Jerome wants him to come in his pants, while sitting on his lap, possibly on the way to his death. Or else he’s trying to bring Bruce right to the edge, only to back off, perhaps in hopes that Bruce would beg him for relief. 

Bruce won’t. He’d never. 

(But he might. He probably will.) 

It suddenly strikes Bruce that the van has gotten quieter. All Bruce can hear is his own harsh breathing, the little noises he can’t stop himself from making, filling the bag and filling his ears. And Jerome. He can still hear Jerome. He can hear the engine, he can hear the bottles rolling from one side of the floor to the other, but he can’t hear anyone else, and he’s not sure when that happened. 

Are they looking at him? Is that why they’ve stopped talking amongst themselves? Are they watching Bruce sit on Jerome’s lap with his legs spread, practically helpless, trying not to squirm as Jerome touches him? Are they  _enjoying_  it? 

The idea that the cultists in the van are almost certainly watching Jerome grope him, that they might be liking it, that they might be thinking about touching him too, fills Bruce with an awful, sickening heat. He is strangely grateful for the bag over his head now. It means no one can see him screwing his eyes shut, biting his lip to keep from letting slip who knows what. They can’t see the way his face is no doubt flushed bright red. 

Bruce wants to close his legs. He feels too open, too bare, too slutty. Spreading his legs while a murderer feels him up in front of other people. But even if he could, that would just trap Jerome’s hand. The heat, the weight would still be there. Jerome would still be able to move it. It’s hard enough to keep from arching repeatedly into Jerome’s hand as it is. Bruce can too easily imagine himself rocking his hips, all but rutting against the hand pressed against him, caught between his legs, and he hates himself. He should be disgusted, he should be fighting, anything besides letting his mind wander to the question of, what if instead of sitting Bruce on his lap, Jerome had sat him on his cock. 

At the very least, the very idea should be sickening. 

But it’s not, not entirely, so while Jerome touches him, while he drags a knife across his skin and makes him hard, Bruce is imagining what it would be like if Jerome had stripped him down and slid his cock inside of him. What it might feel like if every pothole, every speed bump had him bouncing on Jerome’s cock, and how long it would take for Bruce to start moving on his own. It’s bad enough, sickening enough, feeling Jerome pressing against him through layers of clothes. How much worse would it be if Bruce was naked. If Jerome was inside of him. 

Would Jerome want to actually, properly fuck Bruce? Would he do it in front of other people? Would he let others have a turn? 

Is that what Jerome is planning to do to him, whenever they get to wherever it is they’re going? Is Jerome going to fuck him, then pass him around like a toy for everyone else to have their fun with? 

Bruce sobs at the idea, and almost as if he had been waiting for it, Jerome starts rolling his own hips up. He keeps his hand on Bruce’s cock, hips thrusting up, and Bruce can feel his hard cock pressing up against his ass. It's not helping Bruce’s attempts to  _not_  think about Jerome fucking him at all. He can picture it, imagine it even more vividly. With each thrust he can almost feel Jerome’s cock fucking into him. Bruce is rocking his own hips up against Jerome’s hand, and he’s not sure if it’s just Jerome’s movements pushing him up, of if his body’s given up the pretense of not wanting it. Bruce sobs again. 

He should have let Jerome kill him back home. Alfred was probably already dead, Bruce most likely soon to join him, so wouldn’t it have been better to die on his feet, rather than let Jerome do this to him? 

(Rather than let Bruce do it to himself?) 

But Bruce wants to live. And it just feels so good. 

The world narrows down to Jerome’s hand on his cock and his body at his back. All Bruce can hear is his own panting, and when he feels the pressure build and his toes start to curl in his shoes, he grabs at the arm still holding the knife against him. He digs his fingers in, straining at the rope around his wrists and feeling it rub against his skin, distantly hoping he’ll leave a bruise, and for a split second, he thinks about taking Jerome’s hand and using it and the knife to slice into his own stomach. 

“Come on. Come on, darling,” Jerome hisses at him, timing the way he strokes Bruce’s cock with the movement of his hips. “You can do it.” 

It’s too much. It feels too good and too awful at the same time, and Bruce is humiliated and afraid and he wants to go home.  

He practically claws at Jerome’s arm as he comes, head dropping back and body arching up, even as he bites his tongue bloody to stop himself from screaming. 

Afterwards, Bruce goes limp, slumping back against Jerome. He shudders as Jerome continues to touch his cock, oversensitive, but also horrified by the way he can feel the come he’s spilled leaking out of his underwear. He can hear it, he can feel it, and he’s sure Jerome can too. 

“Oh, Bruice, I am so glad I let you talk me into this.” 


	2. Bruce/Ra's al Ghul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a bunch of one-shots involving the bad guys doing terrible, awful things to Bruce.
> 
> Tags and/or warnings will be updated with each new chapter.
> 
> Chapter 1: Bruce/Jerome - "Missing" scene from 3x14.  
> Chapter 2: Bruce/Ra's al Ghul - Ra's testing/taking advantage of his control over Bruce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More terrible porn. But also Ra's monologuing internally a ridiculous amount.

_ "You failed.” _

Bruce flinches, something like shame clouding his face.

“I would have,” he says, voice breaking. “But- but Alfred... he distracted me.”

Ra’s reaches a hand out, cupping Bruce’s cheek and watching as the boy leans into the touch.

“I know,” Ra’s says, pushing benevolence into his tone. “I have  _ faith _  in you, Bruce. I am not just looking for another soldier, another acolyte to join the ranks of the League of Assassins. You have great potential, and I want more for you than that. I want you to be my hand, my sword, the weapon I will wield in order to restore balance to the world.”

Bruce stares at him, drinking in his words, and Ra’s can see in his face, his eyes, the way the Sensei’s methods have taken Bruce’s innate desire to help, his desire for a purpose, his desire to change his city for the better, and appropriated it for the Court’s use. For his use. Bruce wants what Ra’s wants; justice, stability, peace. He needs only to be shown the proper way.

“But I need to know that I can trust you, Bruce.” He uses his thumb to stroke Bruce’s cheek, taking note of the way his eyes slip shut, even as he nods. “Trust you to obey commands, to follow orders, to execute my will.”

“You can,” Bruce says softly. “I will.” He opens his eyes. “ _ I will _ . I will not fail you again.”

Ra’s smiles at him, pleased with the words themselves, and the determination in Bruce’s voice.

“ Of course  you won’t.”

Ra’s lets his hand stray from Bruce’s face down to his shoulder, squeezing, not harshly, but firm enough that Bruce can feel it through all his layers. 

He has been watching Bruce for a long time and searching for him for even longer. He has become a fine young man and will only grow into a finer one. Ra’s can imagine Bruce inheriting his father’s height, growing strong and broad from training, his body a formidable weapon, and a testament to the strength of humanity. Ra’s would have been able to see the potential in Bruce, even without his Sight, just from looking at him, but having seen what he has, he knows what Bruce will do. What he’ll be.

He’s only sorry he won’t be able to see what Bruce will become in person.

For the moment though, Ra’s has him, and time, and so  he  intends to take advantage of both.

A confused frown crosses Bruce’s face when Ra’s presses down on his shoulder, again, not harshly, but  hard  enough for Bruce to feel. Ra’s would hazard from the look that Bruce is either not entirely sure what Ra’s wants him to do, or he does know, and there’s enough of him that’s aware, and fighting, to balk at the suggestion.

“On your knees, Bruce,” he says, evenly. Firmly.

He watches Bruce’s face closely, searching for any sign of defiance, but whatever had been the cause, the frown vanishes at Ra’s words, and Bruce silently drops to his knees.

“Good boy.”

Bruce shivers visibly, and while the conditioning certainly would have embedded a sense of loyalty and devotion in him, Ra’s is  fairly sure  that the response is all Bruce. 

It’s a pleasing thing to note.

Bruce doesn’t bow his head in deference, the way a soldier of the League in the presence of their leader would. He kneels, arms by his sides, and stares up at Ra’s. The torches on the walls, the unnatural green light of the Pit, cast wavering shadows over his face, and there’s something like reverence in his eyes. Ra’s can’t stop himself from reaching out to touch his cheek again. Bruce keeps looking up at him as Ra’s slowly drags his hand down his face and across, brushing his knuckles, his fingers, across Bruce’s mouth. Bruce lets his lips part, and Ra’s can feel the soft exhales of breath against his fingers.

It’s a heady feeling, the heat Bruce’s look, his position, ignites in him. It’s not something Ra’s allows himself to indulge often, concerned as he often is with far greater matters . B ut Ra’s has waited a long time for Bruce Wayne, and now that he has found him, now that he finally has him?

Ra’s al  Ghul  has never been one to squander an opportunity when it is presented to him. Particularly when he has  actually invested  a great deal of work into arranging such an opportunity to begin with.

Tonight  is Bruce’s first, true test, and there is much to be gained, regardless of which outcome ultimately eventuates. But before that, Ra’s will seize that opportunity, make use of what he has been given. A small test, in and of itself perhaps, but chiefly, Ra’s simply taking his due

“You will accomplish great things, Bruce,” he says, pulling his hand back. “You will change the world. I know this. I have seen it. And I can help you, but you must first let yourself be guided. Taught.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Bruce says. “To learn. To finish my training.”

Ra’s smiles.

“Then let’s begin.”

He shifts his robes, lifting his tunic so that Bruce can get at the laces on his trousers. Bruce reaches out with trembling hands, and that too strikes Ra’s as something real. Ra’s’ arousal has been burning lowly for a while, but the feel of Bruce’s hands brushing against him as he undoes the ties, as incidental as it is, has his cock hardening. He does nothing as Bruce continues to work at getting his pants open, just keeps watching , observing the boy on his knees in front of him .

Bruce stops when the laces are undone, hands hovering almost uncertainly in the air, inches from Ra’s. Ra’s waits for him to move, but Bruce remains frozen. He startles when Ra’s clears his throat, eyes darting up at him.

“Do I need to-?”

“No,” Bruce cuts in quickly. “No, I can- Sorry.” He drops his gaze back to Ra’s’ clothed cock. “Sorry.”

Ra’s waits to see what he’ll do and  he’s  not disappointed when Bruce leans forward, without direction, and slips his hands into Ra’s’ pants. The feel of skin-on-skin is a thousand times better than the accidental touches. As soft as Bruce’s hands are, Ra’s can feel the still-healing cuts and roughened skin earned from the accelerated training Sensei had put him through. The touch has him hardening enough that his cock brushes against his stomach when Bruce finally pulls it free.

Ra’s watches Bruce visibly swallow as he stares at his cock, his hands having drifted to rest  at Ra’s’ hips.

“Open your mouth.”

As Ra’s takes hold of his cock, Bruce does, with no hesitation , mouth  dropping open.

“Look at me,” Ra’s says as he steps in, using his grip to drag the head of his cock over Bruce’s cheek, his mouth, across to his other cheek. He leaves a shiny trail of pre-cum on Bruce’s skin,  and involuntarily grips himself tighter when Bruce’s tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. He’s looking up at Ra’s as he does  so, and  doesn’t flinch or move away when Ra’s brings his cock back to his mouth. Bruce’s tongue flits out again, either  unconsciously  or purposefully, brushing across the tip. 

Patience is a virtue that Ra’s has had a long time to cultivate, but the sight of this boy, on his knees, staring up at him with  a  cock resting against his parted lips, tests him. Tests his will, and the restraint needed to not  just  simply thrust forward, to take and fill that mouth, choke Bruce on his cock until the tears start to  fall .

But Ra’s wants to take his time,  savour  it. They can work up to the choking.

He steps forward again, and slowly pushes his cock into Bruce’s mouth. He stops  part -way in, letting Bruce feel the weight of the cock on his tongue.  The size of it, the taste of it.  He pauses for a moment, two, before taking hold of Bruce’s hair, grip firm but not harsh . He pulls  Bruce’s  head  back, until only the tip of his cock is in his mouth.

When Ra’s hears Bruce inhale through his nose he pushes in again, pulling Bruce’s head forward onto his cock, just as slow, but further this time, before pulling back once more. Bruce’s hands start clenching against Ra’s hips as  Ra’s  continues to thrust in and out, his breath speeding up as he struggles to find a rhythm alongside Ra’s’ movements. But he doesn’t move away, doesn’t try to bite down. He just takes it, on his knees, mouth open wide.

Ra’s thrusts again, and again, slow and steady and deeper each time, forcing more and more of his cock into Bruce’s mouth. He focuses on Bruce’s wide eyes looking up at him, the slickness of his mouth, the heat, and the satisfaction it all brings him.

After a handful more thrusts Ra’s stops, pulling back enough so that once again, only the head of his cock is in Bruce’s mouth. Bruce looks up at him with a furrowed brow, but when Ra's lets go of his hair, he seems to understand what he wants.

Ra’s, after all, had wanted to test Bruce’s willingness. His obedience.

Closing his lips around Ra’s’ cock, Bruce leans forward, sliding the length of it into his mouth. Or at least, as much as he can. He gets a fair way down before he chokes, but even that feels good. Before, Ra’s had been fucking into a warm, wet hole, and as enjoyable as that had been, and it had been, there’s something even more satisfying about the feel of Bruce actively working his mouth to bring him pleasure. 

The pressure of it. The way saliva begins to run from the corner of Bruce’s mouth when he takes Ra’s in again, this time a little further. The feeling of Bruce choking himself, again, when the head of Ra’s cock brushes against the back of his  throat . The fact that Bruce is doing it at all.

“Use your tongue,” he says, looking down at the head of dark curls as it bobs up and down. Bruce does, running his tongue along and around the  cock  in his mouth as best he can while continuing to move. There’s little in the way of finesse, but the enthusiasm is there, and that’s more than half the point.

“That’s it. Good, Bruce. Very good.”

Bruce pulls back, and Ra’s watches as he tilts his head to lick from the head of Ra’s’ cock to the base and back. He brings a hand up to stroke it a few times before wrapping it around the base. Ra’s thrusts shallowly as Bruce moves his head back down and continues to swipe his tongue along what he can fit in his mouth. There’s something almost kittenish to the way he licks at the underside of Ra’s cock, and Ra’s wonders idly if Bruce has ever done this before.  W ith one of his friends, or even one of his many pseudo-father figures.  

Or perhaps this is the first time. Maybe Ra’s’ cock is the first cock Bruce Wayne has ever had in his mouth. There’s certainly an appeal in the idea of the boy being untouched, although perhaps equal appeal in Bruce being familiar with giving his body over to others. Or having it taken.

He’s no expert at cock-sucking, certainly, but if he hasn’t done  this  before then his instincts are good. Or else, he’s thought about having a cock in his mouth enough that he knows what to do .

Ra’s brings a hand to Bruce’s cheek, feeling the head of his cock pressing against it from inside Bruce’s mouth. Bruce  stills and  looks up at him  from underneath his lashes ,  eyes already wet. Ra’s traces his thumb along the edge of Bruce’s mouth where it’s stretched wide around him, enjoying the feel of Bruce swallowing. And it’s a pretty picture, to be sure, but...

“Come now, Bruce. You can do better than that.”

There is an answering flash of  _ something _  in Bruce ’s  eyes at  the  words . Ra’s would like to call it ‘shame’, and he's validated by Bruce almost immediately moving both of his hands to rest on Ra’s’ thighs as he slides his mouth down his cock proper, taking it deeper than he had been before.

It makes Ra’s wonder.

Bruce has already proven that the conditioning is not absolute. He has defied orders, hesitated when he should not have. And that is good. Bruce is his  _ heir _ . As important as it is to impart on Bruce the values and the ways of the League, to help him let go of what has been holding him back, as important as it has been to use Bruce himself to strike at the heart of Gotham’s rot, Ra’s, ultimately, requires more. Bruce’s strength, his will, his intelligence, his devotion is what makes him worthy, far more than his physical skills or his connections, impressive though they may be. Ra’s needs that strength. He has seen it.

And so , he cannot help but wonder.

Because Bruce is not recoiling from Ra’s’ cock the way he recoiled from handing down the Court of Owl’s, and Gotham’s, death sentence. He is not faltering. His tongue had tripped on the order and his thumb had hesitate on the button, but now, Ra’s can feel that same tongue on the underside of his cock, licking earnestly, if not eagerly, at the tip when he pulls back, and that same thumb, pressing against his leg as Bruce clutches at his thighs. 

It ultimately matters little whether  their ,  _ his _ , control over Bruce has grown stronger, perhaps as a result of witnessing the killing of the Sensei, or if being ordered to his knees to suck a man’s cock just isn’t a command Bruce feels inclined to fight. Ra’s will find out soon enough the extent to which Bruce is willing to obey, and he’s enjoying himself either way.

It’s simply interesting to consider.

Ra’s pushes back the damp curls sticking to Bruce’s forehead, so he can better see his face. Bruce’s eyes are squeezed shut, but there is a telltale wetness on his cheeks that doesn’t surprise Ra’s, given the fervor with which Bruce taking him. The wet, gagging sounds that spill from around Ra’s’ cock echo off the stone walls.

Ra’s can feel himself leaking into Bruce’s mouth, but if Bruce has a comment on the taste then he keeps it to himself, instead continuing lick and suck at every part of Ra’s’ cock he can reach, gagging each time he tries to force the head down his throat, just to come up short.

It’s wet and messy and base.  The sounds alone.  There’s spit and pre-cum leaking from the corners of Bruce’s mouth, tears running proper down his face and sweat matting his hair. There’s an air of desperation to Bruce’s ministrations, rather than any real skill, and it’s truly the most pleasure Ra’s has gotten from a partner, willing or otherwise, for a very long time.

“Perfect, Bruce ,” he says, cupping the back of Bruce’s head. “ You’re perfect.”

Ra’s says it genuinely, because  he is. Bruce could not have been more perfect if Ra’s had made him himself.

Ra’s has only two living children, neither of them a son. Both his daughters have been raised with the League’s teachings, and they are formidable, deadly, true believers in the cause. Both were far younger than Bruce the first time they took a life in the name of justice, and even now, as Ra’s attends to Gotham, with legions and guards of their own his children work to restore balance to the world. Ra’s would not call either of them disappointments, but all the same, they are not fit to be the Head of the Demon.

At least, not alone.

He already has tentative plans to recall Talia, Nyssa too, perhaps. Depending on the way things play out, Ra’s may not have all that much time left, but if that is to be the case, he can at least set things in motion , lay the groundwork.  The future must be planned for, after all. The future of the League, and the future of his bloodline , beyond a single lifetime.

Ra’s has no doubt that Bruce would father remarkable children.

Bruce continues to try and take the entirety of Ra’s cock. He can’t seem to work past his gag reflex, but he’s getting closer each time.  Ra’s thinks it is only fair that he offers Bruce some assistance. He is, after all, trying so hard.  Taking hold of Bruce’s head, Ra’s pulls him down, tilting his head so that, with some minor maneuvering, he’s able to slip the head of his cock down Bruce’s throat. 

Bruce starts gagging almost immediately, but Ra’s holds him down, shushing him gently.

“Swallow Bruce, that’s it.” Ra’s feels him do so, and it may  actually be  down to the conditioning that Bruce listens to him so readily, working past his body’s counterproductive, panicked instincts to make it easier on himself. The feeling of Bruce’s throat constricting around his cock feels good either way, but it’s not really kindness that drives Ra’s here. Rather, a belief that Bruce should know how to do this properly.

“Keep swallowing. Good. Breathe through your nose, dear boy.”

Bruce’s breathing stutters, and Ra’s manages to catch soft, muffled noises that sound close to whimpers. Ra’s waits, without letting up as Bruce keeps swallowing, content with making Bruce work through it. He’s eventually able to steady his breathing, though with his throat essentially blocked and his nose pressed against Ra’s’ groin, there’s no way for Bruce to pull in enough air to be comfortable. It’s enough though, that he’s no longer fighting it.

“ Good, well done.  Now ,  stay there.”

Ra’s cards his fingers through Bruce’s hair, but he doesn’t grip it, doesn’t hold him in place. He makes Bruce do the work. Makes Bruce hold  _ himself _  there, his nose pressed against Ra’s skin and his throat full. Ra’s can feel the muscles of Bruce’s throat work as he struggles to swallow. Can feel the huffs of air from his nose as he tries to breathe , lungs no doubt starting to burn. He c an see the tension in his body, the way his hands are clenching against Ra’s’ thighs. But still he stays there, deepthroating Ra’s’ cock, holding himself down , and even running his tongue along the underside as much as he can .

Because Ra’s told him to.

Ra’s lets him stay there until it becomes clear he’s on the verge of passing out.  He taps Bruce on the cheek and Bruce pulls back, gasping for air as his cock falls from his mouth. Ra’s can see that Bruce’s face is flushed, even under the chamber’s dim lighting, his lips swollen and smeared with spit and pre-cum and the tears still running down his face. 

He looks up at Ra’s, chest heaving, practically panting, but the moment he catches his breath he leans forwards and  swallows  Ra’s down again , tilting his head the way Ra’s had so that the cock slips back down his throat. Ra’s can’t hold back his groan, pleased beyond anything.

He wonders if he were to slide his foot between Bruce’s legs, whether he might find him hard too. Hard from being on his knees, taking cock. Hard from the pain or the indignity of choking on it. Hard from the very act of service, from being of use.

Were he able, Ra’s would wager on ‘yes ’.

Ra’s knows that members of the Court had often taken perverse amusement in having their Talons mutilate themselves. Nothing that would limit their usefulness, but the occasional burn, or lost digit , among other things.  He wonders how far he can push Bruce before he breaks. Cutting off his air with a mouth and throat full of cock seemingly isn’t doing it. Maybe ordering a more literal cutting would push him over the line.

Speaking of.

As Bruce continues to bob his head up and down, taking Ra’s full length each time, Ra’s signals to one of his men waiting in the shadows, who ducks out into the corridor and returns with two others, carrying a bound and gagged Alfred Pennyworth between them. The man thrashes against  them, and  judging by the blood at his temple and the rapidly darkening bruise on his cheek,  he’d put up a fight.

Pennyworth catches sight of Ra’s and thrashes again, eyes narrowing, but freezes when he spies Bruce. He shouts audibly in the quiet space, but Bruce, distracted as he is, humming around Ra’s’ cock in a way that feels marvelous, doesn’t appear to hear it. It’s likely that Bruce cannot hear anything but the rush of his heartbeat in his ears and the sound of his struggling breath.

And Ra’s.

Pennyworth shouts again, ignoring the kick it earns him, and fights his bonds even harder. Placing a hand firmly on the back of Bruce’s head, curling his fingers into his hair and stilling him, Ra’s brings a finger to his lips. Pennyworth is here because there is something Ra’s would like him to see before he, possibly, dies. Ra’s is, however, happy to move right past the waiting. And the ‘possibly’. There are  plenty of  ways to test Bruce that don’t require the butler.

“Now ,  Bruce,” he says, maintaining eye contact with Pennyworth. “I want you to keep your throat open, and allow yourself to be moved as needed. You’ve been doing so well. Can you do that for me?”

Looking down briefly he smiles as Bruce looks back at him, nodding as much as he can. 

“Good.”

Bringing his gaze back to Pennyworth, Ra’s tightens his grip on Bruce’s hair. He pulls Bruce slowly off his cock, pausing a moment to give Bruce a chance to breathe in, before brutally thrusting back inside. He pulls Bruce’s head down as he thrusts forward, burying his cock in Bruce’s throat. Bruce does as he has been told, allowing himself to be moved without resistance, letting Ra’s force him down.

Ra’s pulls half-way out and then thrusts in again, just as deep, Bruce’s throat pulsating around him, practically massaging his cock. He builds up a ruthless rhythm, fucking in and out of Bruce’s mouth without pause. He maintains control of himself, as always, but does nothing to hold back his strength.

He doesn’t need Bruce’s tongue or even any sort of technique at this point. Just his mouth; a warm, wet hole, attached to something Ra’s has spent centuries trying to find. Pennyworth’s furious eyes at the display of power, of ownership, does certainly help though. 

Each thrust of Ra’s’ hips pulls a mix of wet coughs and moans from Bruce. The obscene sounds, the slap of skin, fill the otherwise silent room, echoing around them, and Ra’s finds himself fucking harder, aiming to draw out even more sounds. The more Bruce chokes, the harder Ra’s fucks him, the better it sounds.

The better it feels.

Bruce is his, body and mind and soul. As  it  should be. As it will be until the day Bruce dies.

When he feels himself draw close, he decides not to warn Bruce. Instead he thrusts three, four more times before holding Bruce down against him and spilling down his throat. Bruce heaves, but Ra’s holds him in place, one hand tight and harsh in his hair, the other stroking gently over the back of his head down his neck.

“Good Bruce ,” he says. “ Swallow , that’s it. Swallow all of it. That’s a good boy.”

Bruce does, or at least he tries. Most of Ra’s’ seed goes straight down his throat, but unable to swallow quickly enough, Bruce’s mouth soon fills, and Ra’s watches as cum starts to leak from between his stretched lips. Bruce keeps trying though, swallowing around Ra’s again and again, drinking down as much of his cum as he can, even as his body reaches its limits.

Ra’s keeps him there, waits until he’s completely spent, until his cock has gone soft in Bruce’s mouth to pull back. He tucks himself away gently, mindful of how sensitive his cock feels while Bruce drops to his hands, coughing up the cum he hadn't been able to swallow.

Glancing back up, he sees  Pennyworth looks at him with such virulent hatred that Ra’s is sure the man would do his best to quite literally tear him apart, should he  ever  be given the opportunity.

Straightening his robes, he looks back down at Bruce, who is still breathing heavily, but has managed to sit back up on his knees.  Ra’s extends a hand to help Bruce to his feet, wrapping an arm around hi s  shoulder s  as he steadies himself. Bruce doesn’t quite cling to him, but his grasps onto his other arm as he stands, eyes closed as he wipes his hand across his mouth.  Ra’s can feel him shaking.

“You did very well, Bruce,”  he  says, using t w o fingers to tilt Bruce’s head to look at him properly. “I could not ask for a better student.”

Bruce shudders when Ra’s runs those same fingers over his bruised and swollen mouth, eyes slipping closed again, but before Ra’s can do something like slip, or push, his fingers into Bruce’s mouth, they’re interrupted by a muffled shout from Pennyworth that has Bruce turning, out of Ra’s’ grip in shock.

Ra’s lets him go, remaining where he is as Bruce takes a trembling step towards his guardian. Bruce turns back to look at him, confusion writ clear across his face, and with the moment broken, Ra’s decides it’s as good a time as any to proceed to the night’s real test. 

Ra’s will now  see whether Bruce has the strength to break through the conditioning, or if he is so far gone, so subdued, that he would kill the man who was his second father, purely on Ra’s’ say-so.

If he does throw off the Sensei’s yoke, then Ra’s will know that he has truly found his heir. After centuries of searching he will have finally found the one worthy to replace him, the one who will lead the League of Assassins into a new, glorious era. If he doesn’t, Ra’s will simply have to push Bruce harder, further. Ensure that he is ready for the weight of his destiny by twisting him and hurting him until he finds the strength he needs. He has more than enough ideas about where to begin.

And if Bruce should never break free, then that was acceptable too. Ra’s has a great many uses for such a beautiful, obedient weapon who would just as soon drop to his knees and open his mouth on Ra’s’ command as he would slit a throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/) is over here, if anyone's interested.


End file.
